Five Time Maria Hill Came Over Unannounced
by smthwallflower
Summary: (and the one time she never really left). Bruce Banner/Maria Hill, over the course of their relationship. In which Maria enjoys Bruce's quiche (that's not a euphemism); may or may not have spent the night (she did); shows up covered in blood (which is mostly not hers); is there when Bruce comes home (probably- hopefully, sleeping); and is there when Bruce wakes up (with steak).
1. Chapter 1

Notes: My Bruce/Maria partner-in-crime, Nat, mostly came up with these. It's her fault. Merry Christmas.

* * *

1.

It's snowing in New York – not at the Tower, which was cored like an apple a week ago and still had repairmen crawling all over it – but at the Stark Mansion, which Tony dubbed the 'Avenger's Mansion' until further notice.

A flurry of housecleaners had dusted off the cobwebs and reignited the pilot lights, bringing the rustic but weirdly homey Victorian house back to a livable state.

Right now Bruce and Natasha are the only ones making use of the space, though he doesn't actually know where Natasha is in the house. He's well aware that he'll know where she is if she wants him to know, and he's oddly content with her dictating those terms. So far she's used her advantage to steal breakfast bacon while he got his glasses from the library, and half his turkey sandwich at lunch.

Now he's working on a quiche that's in the oven, just about to brown, and the doorbell rings. "JARVIS?" he asks curiously, surprised but unconcerned; the two reverse when he hears it's Director Hill.

"Would you like me to relay a message?" JARVIS asks, and Bruce shakes his head, turning the oven off,

"I've got it. Thanks."

If it's an emergency, there won't be time to enjoy the quiche, but there's a small chance it would keep until they got back. If, on the other hand, it was a social visit, it would finish cooking with the residual heat.

Bruce checks the peephole out of habit, pulling the door open to reveal Maria bundled up against the weather in a long coat and tactical boots.

"Can you believe those idiots?" Maria huffs the moment she sees him, the lines of her face relaxing into indignation, stomping her boots free of the snow that clings to them with irritation.

"Which, idiots?" Bruce asks, cautiously bemused, stepping aside as Maria makes her way in, unwinding her scarf and pulling off her hat – the snow peppering the fabric melts against her hands, and he closes the door behind her, staring at the way her hair's mussed at the back from her hat. A lock of strands curves rebelliously to the left just at the nape of her neck, but their slowly budding… intimacy, doesn't yet extend to foyer hair smoothing.

Maria spies the coat rack, and doffs her coat, hanging it on the hook, wrapping her scarf around that and hanging her hat on top, while she answers, "The MTA. Bunch of mindless morons running around that place, it's a nightmare. Completely useless, all of them – are you making something?" she asks, sniffing the air. The smell of the quiche has made its way out from the kitchen, and despite the abrupt shift of topic, Bruce finds himself nodding,

"Quiche. Did you want some?"

Maria smiles warmly, and he's pretty sure he hasn't forgotten a social engagement with her. "That'd be great, I'm starving."

"Coffee?" he asks as a follow up, leading the way to the kitchen, and he hears the happy sound she occasionally makes; it lies between a moan and a hum, and it's usually reserved for the rare times he brings coffee to her office at precisely the right time.

"Life-saver."

When they get to the kitchen the quiche is already on a cooling rack, a neatly sliced quarter of it missing. It doesn't take a second to figure out why.

"Natasha," he explains to Maria, who sits up on the counter as Bruce gets dishes and mugs. "We're the only ones around right now – I haven't seen her yet, but she's been stealing food from me all day. I'm sure she thinks it's endearing," he says dryly, setting on the kettle and pulling the French press out from under the cabinets.

Maria smirks, crossing her legs, and he finds his eyes lingering on the soft line of her neck. "Is it?"

Bruce sighs heavily, but it's clearly for show. "Unfortunately."

Maria laughs and the sound makes him smile. "Where is everyone else?" she asks, shifting slightly to the side as he reaches to open the cupboard next to her. The move has his hip pressing against her knee, but Maria doesn't make a move to regain the distance.

"Tony and Pepper are in Malibu," he tells her, taking out the coffee beans. The fingers of his free hand steady him against the countertop as he reaches, the arc of his thumb pressing against her leg. "It was time for Clint's semi-regular disappearing act, and Thor's with Jane over in Europe."

"So you got the house all to yourself then?" she asks, an eyebrow arched and a sharp, teasing curve to her lips.

The arc of his thumb naturally turns in, so his hand rests against her leg, and he shrugs, "If we're not counting the food-stealing Russian, yeah."

"Imagine all the trouble you could get up to," she suggests, just shy of a conspiratorial whisper. The sheer multitude of implications with that one line is overwhelming; the kettle blowing saves him from needing to answer, and he turns to busy himself with the coffee.

The sound of the beans grinding fill the space between them, and when he turns around, Maria's sectioned out two portions of quiche, and holds a plate in each hand. "I've always been a fan of eating on the couch at times like this," she suggests, and he nods, setting up the press before following her into the multi-media room.

The qucihe is still too hot, but delicious. Choosing a movie proves to be a little difficult, mostly because he gets the sense Maria hasn't quite finished expelling all the pent-up irritation from her day. But the delay means their plates lay discarded on the coffee table in front of them by the time they press play, only crumbs and small bits of green remaining.

Maria starts collapsing away from Bruce in minuet shifts almost instantly, as if her exhaustion has declared a secret war inside her body and is stealing it inch by inch without her knowledge.

By the time they get to the middle of the movie, she's sunk well into the arm of the couch, knees absently bumping up against Bruce's leg. He doesn't dare mention it for fear of ruining the spell, but when her boot starts nudging his calf he draws the line and hauls her feet onto his lap.

Maria startles, slightly; a quick flash of panicked uncertainty, before clamping down on it the next moment. The look she replaces it with is part resignation, part challenge, but Bruce isn't interested in anything but her comfort. Methodically, he unties the laces and pulls them loose, slipping her feet out and leaving them in his lap, finger curling loosely around her shins.

With a glance to the side he passes the ball to her – and she twists in response, bunching a pillow under her head while she stretches out properly, wedging a foot behind his back like a dare to take it all back.

It's mildly uncomfortable, but it feels like rebuffing her now carries more weight than he's willing to play with.

Eventually her leg wiggles its way out from behind his back, until her shin is flush with his thigh and her toes hook around his hip. The other foot he realizes he's still holding, so he tightens his grip, fingers drifting up her calf under her pants, past the line of her socks. Smooth, warm skin greets him, and he grips her arch with his other hand, committing to the gesture.

The happy half-moan, half-hum that comes out like a sleepily secret eases the anticipation that's been building in his shoulders, reassures him that this hasn't been a misunderstanding. For whatever reason, this is acceptable.

Maria ends up staying the night, because it's snowing and cold out, and he doesn't want her to have to deal with that – especially when she's so warm and sleepy and pliable, with the way her eyes flutter closed as he massages her feet. When he takes her hand to pull her up from the couch she moves with a vulnerability and trust that unsettles him; no one should be this unguarded around him, it's dangerous - but it feels good, too.

Natasha's lit a few candles in his room, laid out a chocolate-dipped strawberry in the middle of the bed on a gold plate, and he laughs at it all as he lays out an old shirt and sweats for Maria to change into while he uses the bathroom. Maria's curled up on the left side of the bed with her clothes in a pile on the floor when he gets back, strawberry unseated. Bruce eats it as he debates between sleeping on the armchair and going back to the couch downstairs – or using one of the other hundred bedrooms in this place, and why was giving her his bed the automatic default in the first place?

He's about to head back downstairs for the night when Maria sits up in the bed, looking around the room with grogginess he'll deny finding adorable. "Bruce?" she asks, and upon seeing him dithering between the armchair and the door, rolls her eyes and falls into the bed with exaggerated force. "Jesus fuck, Banner, just come to bed."


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Maria slips through the door to Bruce's section of tower, armed with jeans, a hooded sweater, and her semi-automatic. JARVIS locks the door behind her and illuminates her path with dimmed lights that mimic incandescent lamps – the sharpness of the white light Tony prefers is fine in the lab, but Bruce starts squinting against them by the end of the day. Maria made an executive decision in the face of his sweet confusion, and he'd come to appreciate the change.

It still feels strange, having unfettered access to his apartment – there's a common floor and individual units for all the Avengers, and Maria was surprised to find that there was even a little, bite-sized bachelor pad set aside for her personal use. There likely isn't more than toiletries there, fresh sheets on the bed that have since turned stale. She's also certain that it was more of an obscure gesture of acceptance from Stark more than a practicality, since everyone (except maybe Steve) have come to understand that her and Banner are – having a thing, together.

A thing; casual banter that slid into intentional attention, highlighted with the thrill of daring, soft touches and bumped shoulders. There were invented excuses to be in each other's company, and eventually, the lack of any pretense at all. They're both damaged and broken, actively pushing any attachments away only to find themselves inexplicably drawn together. Their budding relationship is a patchwork quilt, a mess of dark pasts and dubious futures; perhaps that's why it works, why they can lie together in the untainted light of the morning and Maria doesn't feel like she's blackening his soul by sheer proximity – in their own way, they match each other for scars and trauma, dangerous potential and deadly, monstrous tendencies they strive to control.

(Maybe that's why their intimacy doesn't feel like a sin. Maybe that's why she's come to believe his acceptance of her affections.)

Her soft shoes slip off at his door, bare feet pressing against the plush carpet as she crosses the threshold silently. Bruce's breathing doesn't shift, remaining deep and even, the beginnings of a snore flaring just around the corner.

What's propelled her here in the middle of the night with only the barest minimum on her person isn't immediately clear. What is clear is the fact that the sound of Banner's breath and the indistinguishable shape of his shoulder have already eased her.

The Glock she usually keeps under her pillow is relegated to the top drawer of the side table, and she slides it in silently; Bruce doesn't like guns in the bedroom, much less in the bed. But Maria needs a gun in the bedroom, especially while in bed. Be is where vulnerability and inattentiveness run rampant, vigilance secondary to dreams and rool. The side-table had been a compromise, one of the first of many, and she finds it's not actually that bad when she's got Bruce as a buffer.

Maria strips down, laying her clothes out carefully on the dresser for a quick morning get-away. There's a meeting at eight, a disciplinary hearing for an agent she'd mentored, dealing with the fallout for an op she'd green-lighted.

There had been a fatality on the mission, and it hadn't been caused by any error in her judgment, hadn't even been the agent's fault. It had just been one of those things.

And she was fine – it was fine. Yet the thought of spending a sleepless night with only her thoughts for company had driven her out of her hole and to the Tower, where Banner slept unaware and unencumbered.

And with that line of thought she realizes the reason for her impromptu, one-sided rendezvous. Recognizes it as one of those moments of emotional recoil from an event long passed, somehow triggered. The presence of it had blind-siding her with a flurry of suppressed and inexplicable feelings sometime that afternoon.

Like any sane person, Maria, wants comfort from the onslaught. And Bruce, at some point, had become the source of that comfort, has somehow given her permission to seek that comfort, and to seek it from him.

Maria slips between the sheets – a hot shower had proven to be useless, and a cool shower even more so. The air outside is still brisk during the nights, the warmth of the day not yet strong enough to linger through the evening. But Bruce is a furnace, and as she slips a hand under his arm, he sniffs.

It's not her intention to wake him, and she's glad he does nothing more than rub his face against the pillow while reaching out for her. Maria threads her fingers through his, using the semi-sleep to leverage him onto his back – Bruce's head falls against the pillow as his arm reaches around to rest around her spine.

He's neglected a shirt tonight, and Maria lays her head on his bare chest, closing her eyes and listening to the breath shifting through his lungs, the beat of his heart, the tickle of his chest hairs against her cheek, the simple heat of him radiating outwards.

Bruce warms her everywhere her previous attempts had failed too, does it all in less than a minute. The mash-up of noise in her head quiets, the litany of murky feelings calmed. Maria doesn't do murky, doesn't like grey – there are tough decisions to make but each one must be committed to completely, lest it lose its meaning and any associated sacrifices be made negligible. The only thing worse than losing is a loss without meaning.

She falls asleep quickly; physically feels her consciousness slip away, aware of the shifts in the time it takes her to get there. Each moment punctuated by Bruce moving under her, or letting out a deep breath, and she collects them like gems.

Sooner than she'd like JARVIS' soft voice is requesting she rouse before they inadvertently wake up Dr. Banner. They've moved in their sleep so that Bruce is behind her now, a leg tucked snug against her own, his head curled toward the top of her spine while an arm pillows his head. His other arm lies across her hip, hand limp, feathering against her stomach with each breath she takes.

Carefully she slips out from under him, disengaging in phases, and though Bruce murmurs, he eventually turns away in sleepy protest and burrows himself back into the pillows. Maria lays the covers he'd kicked off back over him, so he has something to twist his arms into when he reaches the final stages of sleep. It only takes moments to get dressed and retrieve her gun, the hallway lights engaging as she steps out to brightening the dim glow of dawn.

The coffee's on thanks to Stark's automated-everything, and she pours out a go cup. Maria sips at the hot coffee, lingering by the island countertop.

Should she leave a note?

* * *

Bruce wakes up with the sun, stray rays dodging between the blinds and falling in a pattern along the floor. When he turns he expects to see Maria – or at least some trace of her, but there's only a cold empty space and a pillow he might've crushed in his sleep.

Mystified, he turns, gathering up the sheets in his arms and tucking the bundle close; the pillow smells like her, like her shampoo and soap; the gentle weight of her body draped contently over his is somehow fresh in his mind.

The brewed coffee in the kitchen is further evidence of her presence, and he eventually caves, asking JARVIS whether he's going crazy or not, having imagined a situation where Maria steals away into his room at night only to disappear the next morning, the elusive flame she should, by all right, be.

But JARVIS confirms her presence, and he can't help sending her a text:

 _Missed you this morning._


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Maria shows up covered in blood which, to be fair, is not her own.

It's a small comfort, negligible really, and Bruce hovers outside the door of his shower, worrying his lip and listening for any signs of distress.

Maria's wearing his shirt and nothing else when she comes out, and he sits her on the bed – she's trying to distract him, he knows, but she can't keep him from noticing the puff of her trigger finger with a frown.

The barely audible _tch_ from Bruce after a quick examination earns him an eye roll, and he raises his eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed. "Maria. Your finger could be broken."

"It's not broken," she tells him dryly – she knows her body well, and she knows broken bones even better. The finger is sprained, where the phalange meets the base of her knuckle, and the pattern of swelling supports the claim. And Maria knows Bruce knows; if he actually thought it was broken, they'd be down in the lab instead of sitting cross-legged on top his bed.

"At least let me wrap it?" he requests, his brows pinching together, eyes wide and so. fucking. earnest. The tenderness he handles her hand with would be more appropriate if he was holding a baby mouse.

(Frankly, this whole thing would be more comfortable he was focusing on a baby mouse instead of her, her distaste for mice accounted for.)

Wrapping it is unnecessary, though she's begrudged to admit that it will help with the swelling. "Fine," she relents, making a point of showing that this is an indulgence she's making an exception for; that it's unnecessary and she's saying yes for his benefit and not for her own.

Maria's grateful that some of the tenderness is lost as Bruce wraps an oddly specific tensor bandage around the finger. The bandage is thin, light, 18 inches at its longest. Bruce works it with the familiarity of a triage doctor, holding her finger delicately as he loops and twists the fabric.

Too much pressure at a cross brace has Maria's face pinching slightly – Bruce freezes, eyes coming up sharply, guilt flashing under the concern. Her mouth opens to reassure him that it's fine, but he's already unwound the last few inches, starting anew and taking care to regulate the pressure more judiciously.

"Ice would be nice," she offers as he tacks down the end with a piece of tape. Of course Bruce would be worried – but it's taken until now to understand that the fussing is for his benefit, not hers. Carefully Bruce tapes the finger to the one adjacent (overkill), lips tight together with a focus that he usually dedicates to complex DNA sequencing and amino acids that don't want to bend to his will.

The gentle kiss that he presses to her finger as he finishes is what completely unravels her resolve to persist in tempering his care; Bruce slides off the bed to retrieve the ice and she takes the two pills on the bedspread, swallowing them dry.

When he gets back, his eyes track the absence of the pills and she gets a warm smile for her compliance. "Thank you," he tells her, sitting on the bed and pulling her hand onto his lap, to press the cloth-wrapped gel pack into it.

Maria shifts to accommodate, one leg tucked under her and the other draped across his lap. With a heavy sigh she presses her nose into the crook of his neck, her cheek against his shoulder.

Bruce's head twists, planting a kiss on the top of her head while his fingers travel up her arm to gently press against the knots and strains of her muscles – checking for further injuries, but it's just the finger this time, and the typical aches that accompany a rough tussle.

Maria's uninjured hand finds its way to the bottom of his shirt, un-tucking the worn bunched fabric from his pants. Fingers slip under the tails, sliding up his back, as her nails play across his warm skin; they cross over the bumps of his spine, pushing the shirt up as they move to dance between his shoulder blades. Her head tilts so her lips press against the line of his neck, teasing at the soft skin there gently.

When her fingers start to circle at the top of his spine, she wiggles closer, following the line of his collarbone with small kisses, linking each with the gentle press of her tongue. It doesn't take long for the ice to fall away, Bruce twisting to face her and momentarily dislodging her– his knee is on the bed and she lets herself fall back, following the urgent push of his hand against her hip, the heat of his mouth pressing down against hers.

With a grin she kisses back, fingers tangling in his hair as he grinds against her; it's the desperate pressure of affirmation, the acute desire for reassurance that she's here and alive. There have been more dangerous missions before, even a few nights in the med bay; she's surprised that such a trite injury has unhinged him like this.

But she lets him pull her shirt over her head, works on his while his hands roam up and down her sides. Maria finds a touch of satisfaction in his borderline aggression to map her body out with his hands and lips; it's like he's trying to trace every muscle and bone she has, like he wants ensure that every part of her is whole and attached.

Of course, he gets distracted quickly as soon as he reaches her hips, which is oddly uncharacteristic despite the situation. Maria's glad he's buddy-taped her sprained finger, the additional reminder to keep it immobile helpful as she struggles not to fist and twist her hands into the sheets as she comes.

Bruce seems content with simply wrapping his arms around her waist after, and clinging, the heavy weight of his head settled against her stomach. The first few minutes she basks in the pleasure, content with laying a hand on his head and closing her eyes.

After that her midriff starts to protest – she could spend the night like this, but the aches are starting to take advantage of the momentary rest, worming their way into stiffness.

"Bruce," she says softly, reluctantly, pushing at his head – he lifts it with a lazy groan, and catches her fingers in his mouth, biting them gently. Maria laughs and rolls her hips to unseat him; he makes his way up to her, laid out across her but holding the majority of his weight on his forearms and knees.

She laughs again, and now that she can kiss him she does, sweet and gentle, relaxing into it, the pain from the sprain a distant discomfort.

He settles on top of her after a moment, weight shifted to his side so he's a reassuring presence and not a stifling one. A yawn escapes her, unbidden, and she strokes the back of his neck as he nestles into the dip of her shoulder.

Maria looks down at him; the line of their bodies pressed together, the sheets rumpled and threatening to come up under them. His arm is going to be numb in the morning if they fall asleep like this, but for the moment she can't bring herself to be concerned.

His hand is still curled possessively over her hip, his shoulder drawn in like he's shielding her from an attack.

"I'm fine," she tells him in a low mutter, meaning it wholly this time, carding her fingers through the gentle curls at the back of his head.

Turning his face further into her shoulder he nods, and she feels the touch of his lips, though he doesn't make any move to shift off.

They do fall asleep like that, but Bruce is glad to suffer the pins and needles the following morning for the few hours they manage to steal like this.

It's not until Maria gets home that she realizes that night marks the first time he hasn't been the one to seek _her_ out after a rough mission; the first time she hasn't woken up with him already waiting next to her in a chair.

It's the first time she's gone straight to Bruce after a mission, and she doesn't dwell on thinking about what that means for fear of acknowledging it.


End file.
